1 - 20 of 231 Works by ghostwit
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“Your face is like Orestes’.” He says, drawing back to gaze down upon it. She takes it for the explanation it is, wrapping her arms up around his neck and bringing him close to her. Sweet woman, brave woman, sometimes surly and sometimes demanding, very sensitive, she is just like him, she is like having him and he loves her dearly for it, and she loves him dearly for loving these things of her.
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but you only asked because you knew that i wouldn't by peripeteia (ghostwit)
Fandoms: Athenian Mysteries - Gary Corby
14 Dec 2025
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With no indication of the passing day, they make camp when Markos begins to flag on his lead, his legs flashing lean and dark through the ceaseless, murmuring filter of the sandstorm, lower, then lower still as he fails to maintain the angle of his ankles, seeping into the curvature of each dune. He may be stepping softly for hours, or it may be mere heartbeats, treading into the sand as a man walking the inner face of a cylinder. Beyond sweating, his skin shines by its tightness as do ripe fruit. The thews in his calves and forearms nearly stand.
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when we're not so different by peripeteia (ghostwit)
Fandoms: Athenian Mysteries - Gary Corby
09 Dec 2025
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He desires her flesh, her flesh having been soiled by Nicolaos’ touch, his clumsy, firm grip, a boy’s grip on his first prostitute, these dissolute behaviors the Athenians breed into their boys, and these humiliations they breed into their women.
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“‘Ve been killed by him before.” His voice is huge—somehow, deep, resonant, unstrained, moving with a rippling sensation through Zoro’s body, he can’t remember having heard it so whole before. Perhaps it’s his own shade of warmth in it, making it feel so. He curls down towards Zoro, shrinking towards him with an unnatural flex of the spine. In reception, Zoro extends his arms upwards, touching his throat with the flat of both palms before knotting his elbows up around his nape.
Killer speaks to his lips now, and the sound of it plugs Zoro to the extremities, “It ain’t so bad.”
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South Blue is a bright, dreamy place, with high clouds stamped into the painterly hues of the tropic vistas, beaches curving sweetly and shallowly into the tender-armed surf. The white stucco constructions melt away into white sand: sugar dolloped and scattered into an artificial sea.
On one of her islands, beneath her idyllic, though yellowing sky, there has been something quite like war raging quaintly for a lifetime at least. The air crackles with the ring of bullet-fire, the murmur of open flame competes with the susurrus of the mild sea, and the little toy soldiers, in their interchangeable bandanas and four-stroke insignias, spill human life on uneven cobbles.
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“The sun’s risen.” Alexander looms above him, the high fronds and latticework of greenery like the millionfold joined arms of nymphs. His face, backlit by a bloody sunrise, is only a darkness, a rending, and his open mouth is nothing but an impression, as if Hephaestion had closed his eyes and waved his hand before himself, a swimming in that blackness. His eyelids waver, and he joins Alexander in that huge, moving dim, this other world.
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And so Simpson leans back a bit from the booth of his cubicle, leveraging his chair on the backmost half of its coil to raise his vantage as the pair passes. Bronze-haired, blue-eyed, and blazing with his holy light--that concentration!--the transplant is a marvel beneath steel, nearly to the point of perturbation.
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when the end shines from the deep by peripeteia (ghostwit)
Fandoms: Earthsea - Ursula K. Le Guin
22 Apr 2025
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What a look on him; and what of Ged being in this salt place to see it.
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He wishes Hephaestion to take the taste of waking from his mouth, or to share it with him. Hephaestion’s tongue is superbly moist, slightly salty, and the sensation of it is slaking, listening to the slight rasp of their locked mouths lose its rattle, and convert to the gentle, sibilant suctioning of wetness to wetness, softness to softness. He tastes Hephaestion’s sleep, and smells himself on the man’s face, on his cheeks and in the raw scraping of Hephaestion’s close-shorn beard against his chin and jaw.
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Each day, he loses him, each day he is abandoned, each day Orestes fails to return his love; of what concern is that to him? It is his purpose--perhaps divine, beyond the omnipresence of fulfillment--to love Orestes: let him perish should he fail it.
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still i must obey, still i must invite by peripeteia (ghostwit)
Fandoms: Earthsea - Ursula K. Le Guin
26 Mar 2025
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There are braids of vine thrown between the walk, strung between the parapets, for no reason but beauty, and to no sense but pleasure. In the night, he is soothed by these things, by the sweet wind and the noise of it passing through that multitude of banners and wreaths, everything muted, gentle, forgiving and unwatching. He feels the wind on himself, through himself, feels conduit to it, and he thinks, My kingdom.
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“Well, it doesn’t matter, does it?” Satoru seems to have taken up that petulance, knowing it much closer to complementary on his own pallor. He folds his arms up, and the expression on his face is a deliberately casual projection of hurt. He’s clothed himself in it, immersive, translucent, the young master’s image.
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Mihawk breaks the date—shriveled, salt crusted, unseemly, like refuse—down the center with his kogatana. It spreads in fine grained paste down the acrylic surface of the board, obscuring the blue, glistening threads that weave delicately in the creases of the petrified Alabastan ironwood, its ostentatious stamp discolored.
The translucent skin, veins shrunken to pinworms of blackness in the suggestion of leather flattens against the blade, the salt crystals pebbling off its surface. There is a dull, strange awe lighting below his sternum, even now. He thumbs at the substance, taking it into his mouth.
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“Hey,” Shanks swallows, cheeks going tight, hot. “My heart’s beating real fast.”
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He’s not particularly tall, slight of build and silhouetted sleekly by a pirate’s cloak. He sports the human equivalent of a brilliant tailfeather; sleek red hair to the nape, glistening like arterial spray around the hidden edge of a coarse, slender jaw. Again, nostalgic, vaguely stomach-turning.
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in the arms of kingdom come by peripeteia (ghostwit)
Fandoms: Robot Series - Isaac Asimov
11 Jul 2024
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For millennia the image--of his slightly loose skin, waxen by the knees and shoulders, his unshaved body, crooked like a sardine in its tin--will stand; he imagines Daneel half-submerged and stiff in some cracked and broken plain, with silver reels of film being peeled from his slack head by some coming civilization's curious, and each printed with the uninteresting, baffling milkiness of his bare flesh.
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Channis comes to him, smelling of manifold sweetness, and a little bit briney. His eyelids are half-lowered, and his hands are pink, his cheeks and mouth pinker, and his curls plastered to his temples like a golden circlet. There’s a crown of vines set in his hair, waxy pricklings rising from their tough bodies, all the color of dried blood. His smile is sedate, and those pink hands look completely innocent when he offers them, such that to refuse them would be somehow violatory, crass, inappropriate. He is always granted things in these ways, these ways impossible to refuse.
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my iron tools got swallowed up by spirits by peripeteia (ghostwit)
Fandoms: 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Space Odyssey Series - Arthur C. Clarke
10 May 2024
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"Hal, who is David Bowman?"
“You are David Bowman, Dave.”
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His fast, stilted Russlish, eased up and made esoteric--insular--by his time untutored on the Leonov makes a slight dissonance with the warmth in his voice, without the friendliness bullied out or turned to cunning. In the sulfur-colored light, Walter had not quite realized, but now he sees: his eyes are large, a resonant sort of blue, and slightly in shadow, his brows steep and dark.
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Fastolfe hides his smile in the lip of his mug, his eyes bright and fixed charmingly, ponderously on Baley's, "May I ask, though, have you and Daneel …?"